


A Letter of Light

by Dorsetgirl_hetfic (DorsetGirl)



Series: Sharpe - Letters With Marie-Angelique [4]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 12:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30071946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorsetGirl/pseuds/Dorsetgirl_hetfic
Summary: Sharpe starts to think his relationship with Marie-Angelique is destined to remain but an Indian dream.
Relationships: Marie-Angelique Bonnet & Richard Sharpe
Series: Sharpe - Letters With Marie-Angelique [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2201298
Kudos: 2





	A Letter of Light

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a week after _A Letter of Interest_

~ ~ ~

As the days passed after the arrival of Marie-Angelique’s second letter, Sharpe’s initial optimism drained away and he found it harder and harder to keep to his routines about the farm. He was getting up later every day and some days even letting the hens out in the morning took every ounce of energy he could find. 

He’d been so pleased to receive a letter which he’d first seen as promising some kind of future worth looking forward to, but now every time he re-read it, absently tracing the delicately-drawn lines, it seemed to promise less. 

Where Marie-Angelique said she did not mind that his letter was “not full of flowery compliments”, he now saw “you are too ignorant of the ways of polite society to have any idea how to write to a lady”.

Where she said “I will discuss with Maman when she can spare me to visit you” he now read “If I decide not to come, I can claim it was at my mother’s insistence”.

The more he thought about it, and it was more each day, the more he realised that Michel Bonnet could not have been impressed with either himself or the farm. Looking around it wasn’t difficult to see why. The farm, while reasonably sized for the area, was very small by most standards, and the house was old and frankly shabby, though his years in the Army made it second nature to keep it tidy and he’d kept on the scrubbing woman Lucille had employed for years. He hadn’t even had any decent wine to offer the man, just the _vin de table_ the locals drank; he cringed now at the embarrassment of having offered it to Bonnet, who if he’d been in business in Oporto was almost certainly a wine shipper. As to himself, well, “Not a proper officer” were just the start of it.

Taking it all together, Sharpe felt sure Bonnet would have strongly advised Marie-Angelique that he was not a suitable person for her to be associated with, and he would have discouraged her, perhaps even forbidden her, from rebuilding their acquaintance. Who could blame a man for protecting his niece from a gutter-born soldier whose every instinct was to be the grit rather than the oil in whatever machinery he found himself part of?

He must have been an idiot to think she would really come and see him.

With his continuing low mood, the farm was deteriorating visibly. The ditches he’d cleared with such purpose when he still thought she might come now weeds growing in them again, and the far meadow was testament to his lack of industry about the land in general. He hadn’t even checked whether the apple trees were in bud after their pruning.

He had considered replying to Marie-Angelique’s second letter, but it seemed like too much effort. Best to just accept it, let her go. Until he got her first letter he’d never seriously expected to see her again anyway. Sometimes he thought it was harder to know hope and have it torn away than to live with no hope at all, but then he would tell himself _you’re a bloody farmer, not a poet, you stupid bastard. Just forget her, get on with it and stop having ideas above your station_. The days were getting longer and his mood heavier and he was almost angry with her for having written at all.

When Thursday came round Sharpe took himself down to the far meadow to tackle the weeds, determined not to think about the carter setting out from the town with letters for the villages around. He refused to go back to the house until it was so dark his own feet were in more danger than the weeds from his angry digging.

Exhausted and dirty, he took some cider for his thirst before taking off his shirt to rinse the sweat of the day’s furious work from his body. It wasn’t until he turned to sit down with his supper that he noticed the letter on the floor in the corner. The carter had a habit of standing at the door and flinging the post at the table, apparently priding himself on landing it precisely next to the candlestick every time. Today he had failed and the letter had almost gone into the fire.

Sharpe stood and looked at the letter, torn between wanting, and not wanting, to know what Marie-Angelique had said in this new letter. Was it to be renewed hope or continued desolation? He looked down at his supper, invitingly warm against his chilled hands, and his stomach turned. He decided that cold and hungry as he was, he needed to know right now.

He picked the letter up and held it close for a moment, bringing it to his face so he could smell her perfume and touch his lips to the seal her hands had touched. _Stupid bugger_ , he thought, _not a fucking poet, remember? Just open it, damn your eyes_. He honestly frightened himself with how much this suddenly meant to him.

~ ~ ~

Mon cher Richard,

I am so happy to tell you that I will be arriving in Normandie very soon ! Maman and I make preparations for the journey. We have arguments all day because Maman says I must bring many gowns to be social and I say that you have seen me in one gown only for so many days and it is not important. I thought she would faint away - “Comment peux-tu _dire_ que cela ne fait rien ?” she says. We compromise - I will accept two new gowns for the visit and she will let me bring my one gown that has seen so much.

I am not so happy to tell you that it has been decided that in Normandie I shall stay at the house of Michel et son épouse, ma tante Louise. This is not what I want but I have little choice. I care not for my reputation, and you and I have already spent so many days and nights in circumstances that would shock those who would set themselves above us, but I must also consider your reputation, mon cher Colonel. You are an officer, and whether you think it or not, a gentleman, and I would not do anything to harm your honour in the eyes of the world, and particularly of my friends and your neighbours.

You will think me weak and I am sorry for that. But unless I am to take in washing or learn to sew - and I would do that but perhaps not yet - then I am bound by the wishes of those who have my interests at heart and my purse-strings in their care. Michel’s man has remained in Paris so that he may ride with me. 

My dear Richard, by the time you read this I shall be on my way towards you.

Recevez, je vous prie, mes meilleures amitiés. 

Chaleureusement,

Marie-Angelique

~ ~ ~

He lit a second candle to read the letter again, and sat at the table by his cooling dinner admiring Marie-Angelique’s fine handwriting, so different from his own clumsy hard-won efforts. Washed in the warmth of relief and hope he laughed affectionately at her innocent plans for making a living on her own account - “but perhaps not yet” in particular amused him more than was perhaps kind of him. He had no doubt she was sincere but he couldn’t imagine her keeping at the work very long and didn’t particularly envy her would-be customers. 

He already knew he would do everything he could to protect her and ensure the situation never arose.

As to the new gowns, he had very little interest in fashion, deeming it women’s business and nothing of his; he was sure if Marie-Angelique had the choosing of them the new gowns would be very fine, but he had to admit to a fondness for the old gown. It certainly had seen a lot, including on several occasions when she wasn’t even wearing it - a comment he must remember never to make in anyone else’s hearing. 

He’d even touched her breast once through it, he remembered, his hand and sleeve grazing the pretty material by accident, but they’d both been preoccupied at the time with the needs of the dying and it was only in memory that he’d even noticed. She had never mentioned it.

At last he stood up and made himself ready for bed, putting the letter safe in the drawer. Tomorrow with renewed energy he would take inventory of what needed doing against her arrival and make sure all was ready for her. 

~ ~ ~


End file.
